Vows
by GhostRelic
Summary: The wedding, and wedding night, of Tywin Lannister and Sansa Stark. This is the follow-up to Assured. :::: Pride & Pack: Part II :::: [COMPLETE]
1. Ceremony

The sounds of the world around her warbled into coherent sentences as Lord Tywin spoke his vows.

Sansa had said nothing since the evening prior. Not when she was summoned to the king, not when the queen regent broke her fast with her in the morning - then proceeded to give her a graphic description of what would happen when she and her father consummated their marriage. She was dressed and preened in silence, even with the best efforts of the maids assigned to assist her trying to make small talk.

Nothing.

Reality hit her hard and fast when she left Tywin Lannisters' presence the day before. This was not a dream. This would be something that would be irreversible; the lion would not offer her concession for her fear or apprehension. Her marriage duty would be seen through and she'd be his wife for true.

She felt cold, even though the rest of those congregated were sweating where they sat. Her ears had been ringing since she woke up and she couldn't, for the life of her, focus on anything.

Until now.

Her body selected that particular time to snap back to the moment at hand.

She found herself staring into the ornate, yet muted, doublet of the man speaking his vows. She didn't have it in her to look him in the eyes.

Once finished, the septon cued her to speak; to take the vows that would bind her to The Lord of Casterly Rock in the eyes of the gods.

She spoke not one word.

At first, it sounded like a dramatic pause but it quickly stretched into something uncomfortable.

When the crowd started to murmur and titter she saw a leaning movement in the doublet in front of her, and felt the warm steady breath of a mouth beside her ear.

"I respect you for challenging the law my lady, but make a fool of me and no law will save you." It was a monotone whisper, not malicious or with an air of violence, simply a matter of fact.

She looked at him then, realizing two things; the first was that it would make no difference if she said her vows or not, the law meant nothing when you were being married to a man that could afford to have them work in his favour. Also, she noted, Lord Lannister wasn't sweating either.

Sansa aimed her eyes at the throat of the lion, and spoke her vows clearly.

When she was draped in a cloak of crimson and gold she had to fist her hands to stop them from shaking. But her internal fright was interrupted by hands on the sides of her jaw, tilting her head upward. It wasn't until she felt a brief press of cool soft lips that she knew the ceremony was sealed and done.

Her grip was tight on the arm Lord Tywin offered her before they walked out of the sept, causing him to look at her; as if to assess her intent.

Her_ intent _was nonexistent, she had just been married to the most intimidating man in recent history.

She was terrified.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The feast, like the ceremony, was grand and befitting Tywin Lannister. But to look at the man you would get the impression he found the whole thing a tedious exercise. Being on display and open to the falsities of courtiers and plied for favours from the same men who'd damn him to all seven hells if given the chance.

The bride and groom were placed next to the king, his betrothed, and queen regent at the high table; at a perfect altitude to watch the progression of their guests inebriation.

Tywin drank only very watered down wine and was genuinely intrigued that his wife opted for the same. He made the assumption that she'd gladly be diving into her cups, drinking through this event that she had no control over.

Needless to say, he found her Tully sense of duty impressive.

To her right sat Tyrion, who had been covertly eyeing her since the moment they were seated; like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

And_ that_ moment was when Lord Tywin was facing yet another lord, this one trying to augment the terms of a loan.

"_Mother!_"

At least _he_ was enjoying the evening enough for everyone.

Sansa turned and blushed hot and red at her new good-son, "My lord."

She could wrap her mind around so very few things in the past handful of days, being mother to Tyrion Lannister, and grandmother to Joffrey, weren't anywhere near comprehension yet.

His demeanour softened at her obvious discomfort, "You look beautiful my lady."

She smiled small and tremulous at the compliment before thanking him in a voice that matched.

He took a moment to consider her before returning his attention to his wine and food.

Sansa couldn't help but acknowledge the similarity of mannerisms between Lord Tywin and his son - though she wasn't about to bring her observations to light.

Course after course was set in front of her then removed, she lost count and interest after ten.

Her attention withdrew to her mother and how she should have been there; Sansa felt truly alone in a room full of people - at her own wedding.

Her melancholy would never show on her face, but her eyes must have been painted pictures.

"Don't worry my lady, everyone here knows this was not a match of your, or your family's, making." Tyrion had leaned toward her so his voice would not carry.

"My family are traitors my lord, marrying Lord Tywin is an honour. One for which I am grateful, and shouldn't be pitied." It was clear, concise, and said with all the sincerity one would find in a loaf of bread.

Tyrion quirked his brow, making his facial wound shift grotesquely, "You misjudge me my lady. My pity is never given freely, but earned fervently by the most deserving."

Sansa couldn't tell if she had been insulted outright or pitied further, or both.

Tyrion looked as though he was about to say something else, his expression had again changed to one of kindness and understanding, when he was over-spoken by the king and his father.

Sansa turned in time to see Lord Tywin speak and nod at Joffrey.

"Of course Your Grace."

When her husbands eyes met hers she could plainly see an air of suspicion and it confused her.

Before she could dwell on it, the king spun to her with his hand outstretched, "My lady, grant me your first dance."

She immediately looked to her husband; not for protection, but because it was expected of her to first gain his approval.

He offered her the same curt nod he'd given the king.

Sansa took the arm of her once-betrothed, a gesture she'd performed many times before. She could only hope that this time wouldn't culminate the way it usually did - in pain and humiliation.

The king was graceful and fluid, leading her through steps and turns she had known since she could walk. It was when they were almost side by side that Joffrey drawled in her ear.

"I'm considering a reinstatement of First Night, just for you my pet."

Sansas' naturally pale complexion turned ashen as the words fluttered to the part of her mind that understood such things. She could feel herself go clammy, but had enough inner strength to keep her world upright when she was spun to face him.

She assumed Lord Tywin wouldn't abide his grandsons' wishes, but she also knew that assumption, on any scale, in context to the Lannisters, was a deadly proposition in and of itself.

It was the kings cruel smile that had her defeated. Dancing and mortally wounded, as though she was being beautifully lead into the midst of battle. There would be no rescue, no hero for her story. She was at the mercy of a boy who hated her and a man who was indifferent. The only remaining person she had a remote notion of comfort with was a half-man who was regarded, by the men who controlled her, as favourably as an illness.

She moved her feet and turned her body as the music dictated, and sunk further into the depths of despair and regret. She should have left with the hound, she _should_ have left at her father's orders.

A sharp, hard pinch at the small of her back brought her back from her thoughts.

"You look bored. Don't you enjoy dancing with your king?"

The grip of his fingers tightened painfully, Sansa had to concentrate on smiling and not shedding the tears she knew were welling from the hurt.

"Good girl. Keep smiling and I won't have you fucked by my horse before I take what's mine," he sneered maliciously.

She could only stare and smile blankly at him and hope - hope to whatever gods listened to traitors - that she would be able to crawl into the warm dark den buried deep in her memory, the one she sought refuge in every time the king made her an example, and remain there for the duration of whatever he had planned for her tonight.

At least the twisting pain of his fingers was dulling.

After a few more steps, both Sansa and Joffrey came to a sudden stop. She thought he'd backed her into a wall, but she was still in the middle of the floor - surrounded by others who were dancing - and the wall behind her was warm... and breathing.

"Your Grace, I have yet to dance with my bride." The voice was serene, but held a dominance that Sansa could see King Joffrey wither under.

The king didn't acknowledge Lord Tywin with words; he simply pushed Sansa away, which only pressed her harder into the man behind her, and walked back to his place at the high table.

Large hands placed themselves on her shoulders and motioned her to turn around.

When she faced Lord Tywin, she had to look up far more than she had with Joffrey. He was certainly a large man; imposing physically, but_ that_ was nothing compared to the look he carried naturally.

He didn't smile at his wife, he barely seemed to notice her. But when he settled his hands to their respective places and lead her in the same dance steps she followed with the king, she could see that his eyes weren't like blades anymore; absent was the suspicion. It was like the sharp corners had been rounded somewhat; and as she continued peering up at him, her own wooden smile lost its' rigidity.

Her grin was tiny and genuine, as though she was enjoying herself with her husband.

He did notice_ that_. Of course he did.

As Lord Tywin scrutinized her expression, looking for fault and insincerity, she held it - and found it was something that didn't need to be forced.

His facial features remained unchanged; she didn't really expect they would. But what surprised her, almost to the point of fumbling her steps and stopping her altogether, was feeling Lord Tywins' thumb rubbing soft, light circles over the spot on her lower back where Joffreys' touch contrasted in hard cruelty.

The dance turned her, then, to face the high table. She observed the king and his new betrothed speaking in close proximity; Joffreys' initial focus on having her suffer, all but forgotten.

Sweeping further down; Cersei was watching her with a glare Sansa was sure, if it were a tangible weapon, would kill her where she stood.

Her vision then panned to Tyrion. He was looking at them, her and his father, wearing a look that spoke nothing of contempt or even his usual mockery; it was peaceful, almost pensive.

Keeping her gaze Tyrion nodded at her, a small shallow movement, and Sansa felt a rush - like she wanted to weep; for in that one rudimentary act of communication, he told her she was safe.


	2. Revelation

Lord Tywin escorted his new wife back to their chambers in The Tower of the Hand and couldn't help but notice that_ her_ delicate hand had gone from gripping his arm to shivering on it. Outwardly though, her face was placid; her nervousness penned mostly on the inside.

_Good. In time she'll learn to completely pin back the physical traits of fear. _His thoughts were edged in light admiration of the girl.

They walked in silence and continued as such when they were through the door of their apartments.

Tywin didn't stop in the sitting room, didn't offer his bride wine or the opportunity for conversation, just kept walking to the bedchamber. This was a duty that must be performed in order to secure the legality of their marriage.

Stopping just short of the side of the bed, Lord Tywin turned to Sansa and spoke as if she were one of the lords he was tolerating during their feast.

"You are aware of what we must do." It wasn't a question.

Sansa stuttered out an affirmative regardless, as she recalled what the queen prepared her for as they broke their fast that morning.

_"My father is a severe man, he'll not tolerate resistance or insubordinate behavior," she spoke with equal parts venom and disinterest, "He will not love you. He will never love you; his ability to do so began and ended with my mother."_

_Sansa didn't think it possible, but the queen turned even more sinister, "You will spread your legs and he will fuck his way through you, little dove. You will bleed and breed, like every wife before you."_

_And just as quickly, Cersei wore a smile, sweet as honey, and patted Sansas' hand like she was her oldest friend._

She was startled back to the present as Lord Tywin raised his hand to caress her cheek and jawline. It took every bit of her inner strength not to flinch at his touch; but she simply couldn't will her muscles to stop their light spasms.

Moving both hands to her hair, he took little time in undoing the complicated curls, braids and fastenings. He seemed momentarily fascinated with her tresses; splaying and running his fingers through the length of them, twirling a lock in his palm.

She watched him, observed the way he raked his eyes over her. There was nothing in them like she had seen before in the men that looked at her, it was more like she was being determined of value.

Whatever softness he displayed earlier was replaced with a coldness she had only witnessed when her father was in the midst of a transaction.

She supposed that was exactly what she was; chattel.

Reaching for the base of her throat, he unclasped her Lannister cloak and set it aside.

Lord Tywin flexed his jaw then, almost as though he wanted to say something, and turned her around, facing away from him, by the shoulders.

As his fingers worked through the laces of her gown he could see she was now trembling visibly.

He knew he was a man to be, and was, feared; but this type of reaction was bordering on the ridiculous.

Lady Sansa had been bred well enough to know what was expected of her on her wedding night, in her marriage bed; for her to quake like this was an implication, as he saw it, that he was some sort of degenerate.

The scene was raising his ire.

When he was finished with the gown, he unceremoniously dropped it to pool at her feet. At which point he was more than disappointed in Sansas' frivolous display, and instead of turning her to unlace her shift, he simply reached around and yanked at the ties. The rougher he pulled the more she shook; and by the time the ribbons were torn apart, she was audibly weeping.

He didn't care. This was her duty.

Tywin Lannister had been wrong. His bride was no more than a foolish girl. His daughter was right in that Sansa was lacking; intellectually and otherwise. How she ever pulled herself through their initial meeting was beyond him. Some mummers act he supposed; perhaps to ensure a marriage to him instead of Tyrion.

That line of thought only served to fuel his anger even more.

He all but ripped the garment down and away from her body, her smallclothes catching his fury on the way.

Her hair had swished back, long and full, before he could straighten again and all he wanted to do was grab a fist full and teach her what fear really was.

Lord Tywin angrily pulled off his doublet and outer-tunic and was working at the laces of his breeches. He was mentally determining if he wanted to follow through with his own duty and bed the girl face to face, or save himself some grief and fuck her face-down so her sobs and tears could soak into a pillow instead.

Either way there'd be blood on his cock and he would be done with it, with her.

It was when he pushed her roughly toward the bed, her knees bumping the edge, forcing her to catch herself on her hands, that her hair parted and he finally saw.

He stopped dead. Cock hard and in hand, only just pulled outside his breeches, still wearing his under-tunic and boots. The molten pit of malice inside him was all at once extinguished, replaced with an ever-expanding field of understanding.

_His_ new bride. _His _wife, was covered in a latticework of scars and bruises. Some old, as far as he could tell, some fresh - as confirmed by the small trickle of blood, surely caused by his callous disrobing of her.

She wasn't afraid of her duty, as was evident anytime they were facing each other and the few times they had conversed. She was self conscious of what had been done to her, of what he would think of her, of her flawed exterior; and more likely, anxious of what he was going to do to add to what she had already suffered.

These were the things he was steered away from when he questioned rumors of her mistreatment.

_Do they think me such a blind old man, that I won't see? _Even his inner voice was furious.

These were acts she endured here, not from her childhood, not from her family; and for a searing moment he looked her over more closely, seeking the telltale ravages of Gregor Clegane. But knew from experience that if_ that _were the case he'd not have to look hard, nor would this girl likely be alive for him to see.

His fingertips acted on their own, softly tracing some of the silvery ridges.

"I'm sorry, my lord." He could barely understand her hoarse voice as she whispered into the bedding, "It's... They're ugly."

He spoke as he carefully lifted her upright and turned her to him, now noticing blooming rounds of colour on her ribs and finger-shaped bruises encircling her upper arms.

He crouched down until he was eye-level with her, "Who did this?" Decades of schooling his voice was the only thing masking primal rage.

"No one, my lord."

Her voice was no longer quivering; her eyes still held tears, but she was no longer crying. Her appearance was icy.

His was wrathful.

"Do you think me stupid, girl? Look at me," his words were measured, his tone was made of seething rancour, "_Tell me who did this_."

"I can't-"

He couldn't help it, he gave her a solid shake, _"Names!_"

Lord Tywin wore a posture that she was sure sent grown men running.

"The... Kingsguard," it was the tiniest of rasps, her newly found courage abandoned as fast as it was gained.

He just glared at her, the deliberated frenzy in his eyes told her he was still waiting for an answer, the one provided was not enough.

It was an effort not to make water on herself.

"Trant, Blount, Moore, Greenfield, Oakheart." They were the first, and all she had the heart to remember currently.

"_When_ did this_ last _happen?" He was shaking now. His fury was consuming him.

She looked at him then; squarely. Her voice clear, and not at all confident.

"Last evening... after our... consult."

"At _whose _command?" He didn't have to ask. He knew exactly who this savagery belonged to.

She only shook her head, her big blue eyes staring intensely. Sansa may be young but she heeds every lesson learned through pain and loss; information kills. She would not name anyone that would force him to choose.

Her consideration was halting, he knew exactly what she was doing by saying nothing, and it caused a tightening in the depths of his chest - one that was both familiar and forgotten.

The vivid green eyes she was looking at, and were looking at her, suddenly went blank. She had never seen eyes do that, it was as though she had become invisible and Lord Tywin was focusing on the wall behind her. The only other set of eyes she'd seen like that were her fathers, when she was forced to view...

The lions' eyes were dead, and it made the back of her neck prickle.

In that moment, Sansa unequivocally feared the man standing in front of her.

She watched as he moved about the room without speaking. Tucking in his under-tunic, tightening the laces on his breeches, and shuffling through the contents of a wardrobe.

She was at too much of a loss to even move.

Lord Tywin was standing in front of her again, still looking at her with unseeing eyes, still not saying a word; he shook out a bedgown, rolled it up from the hem and waited.

She didn't quite know what to do, but an instinct from her childhood took over and she raised her arms above her head - and instantly felt foolish.

It was short-lived as that was what Lord Tywin was waiting for. He gently worked the garment over her and waited until her arms were properly placed before he swept her up in his own; careful to avoid touching her most recent lashes, and laid her almost tenderly on the bed.

With absent eyes peering through her, he brought a cover across, tucked her in, brushed his fingers over the crown of her head and said in a calm, faraway voice, "Sleep."

Without another word to her Lord Tywin turned, picked up his sword belt, and walked out.

The last thing she heard was the outer door of the apartments shutting loudly.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tyrion would later tell Sansa of how his father stormed back into the hall, wearing a half-tucked in under-tunic, shoddily laced breeches and a poorly secured sword belt; accompanied by what looked like an entire regiment of Lannister soldiers.

_"A madman invading a dinner party._" He'd chuckled in his telling of events.

And how Joffrey made a snide remark about just how quickly The Lord Of The Rock returned from bedding his wife; which was answered by the old lion picking the boy up by the ear, his crown falling onto the table with a loud clank, and dragging the king, bodily, to a standing position in front of him.

Tyrion made sure to accentuate that part of the story by flailing his hands side by side, as though they were Joffreys feet, looking like some poor woodland creatures' death throes.

He would also tell Sansa of Lord Tywin stating, in a voice that would brook no opposition whatsoever, that the king would need to fill spaces in his personal guard.

With that, his men dragged the entire kingsguard out to the bailey - his father didn't have the patience to take them any further - only to exact justice swiftly.

Ser Boros and Ser Meryn were executed there and then without preamble, and the rest were stripped bare and flogged bloody.

Not a single knight, soldier, lord, or king made a move, nor spoke a word, to stop the lion in his single-minded vengeance.

He didn't know what happened after they re-entered the keep; Lord Tywin took Joffrey and Cersei into another room and had a private discussion.

Although he did know for certain there were noises of _slapping and weeping_, as he would tell her peering over his cup of wine - and through a smile that was there but hidden.

Tyrion would also be forward in letting her know that his father was motivated more out of anger from being slighted by proxy than chivalry. But he would equally insist that the gesture was one of caring.

At least to the capacity of Tywin Lannister.


	3. Consummation

When Tywin got back to their rooms, he walked through the sitting area to the bedchamber, only to find it empty. The lingering bloodlust was causing his body to react by getting angry, but it dissipated once he was back in the sitting area.

There, radiating in the firelight, was a spill of auburn hair over the armrest of the sofa.

Sansa was shivering when Lord Tywin left, and the fire was greater in the sitting room, so she took a fur and a blanket and curled up on the sofa. She had only hoped to warm up before going back to bed and sleeping as she'd been told, but the heat and the exhaustion from the day caught up with her and she slumbered where she lay.

His wife was peaceful and Tywin considered leaving her where she was, but thought against it just as quickly.

Crouching down in front of her, Tywin gently shook her shoulder, "My lady, wake up."

Rousing maidens was an activity in which he was sorely out of practice; the thought, at first humourous, turned bitter in his mind.

Instead he stood, scooped her up, coverings and all, and walked carefully back to the bedchamber. Her head was in a natural position on his shoulder and, through her sleep, she wrapped an arm around his neck. This act was also a bittersweet memory; it had been a terribly long time since he'd been at the receiving end of this type of affection - one of the participants being asleep or not.

When he laid her down, he took a moment to really _see _her. She was beautiful; truly her mothers daughter; a queen of love and beauty. Even without the courtesies and impeccable demeanour, even sound asleep, this girl was something to revel in.

Tywin was in mid-thought and didn't notice that Sansa had woken and was looking at him. More precisely, looking at the blood staining his light-coloured under-tunic.

"Are... Are you injured my lord?"

He frowned at her, but followed her gaze to understand her question.

"No my lady," he looked at her once more, "No one will hurt you again."

It was the truth. Tywin removed the heads of Blount and Trant himself. And while his actions were spurned by the fact that his grandson and kingsguard thought themselves able to bring harm to something that belonged to him, Sansa viewing it as an act of chivalry would only work in his favour.

But he was taken aback when she moved to a position on her knees and pressed her forehead to his chest, her fingers twisting tightly into the fabric of his tunic.

She was crying softly, he could hear, as she sputtered out a thank you.

He brought his hands to her hair, stroking down and through it. Something that, again, came from a far away recollection. The inclination to offer comfort was one he thought long ago buried, more so, the need to. He didn't love this girl, but the desire to protect her was becoming something more than words recited in a ceremony.

Tywin shook his head as if to rid himself of the thoughts that were prompting him to feel anything at all. He couldn't lose his head to this girl, comfort her - yes, care for her - maybe, in time. But never lose sight of the fact that she is only a means to an end, to be used for her only real worth; heirs, and the north.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

His fingers were still tangled in auburn when Sansa started to pull away, he removed his hands and let her settle back on the bed, watching her wipe her eyes and cheeks as she went; her fit of weakness thankfully short-lived.

Lord Tywin slowly made his way around to the opposite side; stopping to strip himself of the rest of his clothing before he joined her. He was sat higher up on the mattress, his back resting on the bolster, pillows and head board.

Her nervousness returned to her like a wave.

She couldn't watch him undress; she didn't feel ready for the truth of it all. She stared straight ahead, focusing on the footboard, shivering all the while.

She knew what the Hound looked like after he had killed; a fire burning wild in his eyes. Lord Tywin was calm and collected, his outward demeanour betrayed nothing, his eyes told her even less - and to her,_ that _was far scarier than a giant man with an unpredictable temper.

"Look at me my lady."

Sansa instantly snapped her head to the side in compliance, but her eyes were darting to the details of his face. She couldn't concentrate and it made her look like a frightened animal.

She flinched when his hand curled around hers, their fingers twining; she was distracted and didn't notice his arm moving.

She swallowed audibly, all she could think about were Cersei's words _...You will spread your legs and he will fuck his way through you... _Sansa didn't even know what the statement truly implied, all she knew was that it sounded like more intentional hurt she would endure.

This was something she wasn't prepared for, her mother and septa told her that she would do her duty by her husband when she was married, that there would be blood the first time she laid with her husband. But there was never any tutelage regarding what her duty was exactly, or what exactly happened in a marriage bed.

_I want my mother... _Her inner self despaired.

So caught up was she in her own private terror that when Lord Tywin spoke, Sansa's mind, despite itself, was trying to comprehend what he'd said as some sort of lecherous command.

It wasn't.

Her husband asked her about Winterfell.

She couldn't help but stutter out an answer; still dazed and half anticipating him to chide her for being stupid, for not properly regarding her lord husband - as was her duty.

Lord Tywin did no such thing. He simply asked her what she remembered of her beloved home. Told her to describe details of both the place and its' people.

After a while he asked another question; this time inquiring about her siblings; their names, their personalities, and the like.

In answering him, Sansa felt a bit of sorrow; speaking of people and places she knew she would never see again - especially now that she was married to a Lannister. _The _Lannister.

At the same time, however, the more questions she was asked, the less she shivered, the less she considered her surroundings - and company.

She was almost completely at ease when she felt his thumb move in little circles in the side of her hand. Just as before when they were dancing, when his thumb drew circles on the small of her back, she found the motion and touch soothing.

Lord Tywin wasn't smiling or jovial, she observed in her peripheral, he maintained a calm demeanour - though it wasn't necessarily welcoming.

Looking down at their hands, Sansa remembered the first time their fingers were locked together like that; a memory that made her blush hot and red all the way up her neck.

She regarded him more directly at that point, trying to gage his mood.

The conversation ended then, her husband now returned her stare.

Lightly tugging on her hand, the lion spoke gently, "Come here my lady."

Sansa took a deep breath before she shifted to her knees; Lord Tywin adjusted his grip on her hand but never let her go as he guided her first to kneel beside him, then, as she rearranged her nightdress, to sit astride his thighs.

She didn't know where to look. He was naked under her, she was bare under her nightgown, and she couldn't get past the anxiousness that was threatening to swallow her.

She opted to admire the intricate scrollwork that ran the edge of the headboard.

"Lady Sansa," his tone remained gentle, his features remained severe, "You have never seen a man unclothed," another one of his non-questions, she nodded in response anyway, "We are wed. This would be the time to look."

Reluctantly she allowed herself to view him, to take in the figure of the only man she would see naked; her husband.

Sansa started at the top, his bald head was tanned a golden brown. Aside from his eyebrows, the only hair he had on his face and head were the thick stripes of golden hair on his cheeks that stopped at his jawline, not quite a beard. His face had age lines, around his eyes and on his brow, but not like she'd seen on other men - he didn't seem as old. She supposed that youth was something else that could be paid for. His tan ended at his collar but the rest of him wasn't that far off, certainly not as pale as herself or those of the north.

Raking her vision downward she noted his body was firm, his stomach flat; she thought of King Robert and how he was more her fathers age but had looked older than her husband. Lord Tywin had short hair on his chest and also on his forearms, golden like the hair on his face, but it looked softer. There was grey hair mixed in, both on his face and his chest, but it didn't seem to diminish the gold - just enhance it somehow.

Her view ended low on his abdomen, that's where her nightgown came to rest.

Her hand was reaching out to touch him, more precisely his chest hair, before she could think to reel it back in; he told her she could look, not touch.

She met his eyes, trying to convey apology; he didn't look perturbed in the slightest.

"Go ahead my lady, touch."

It was the invitation her hand had over-jumped, but instead of reaching for his chest, as was the aim initially, she reached for his face - wanting to feel the hair there. Pet it may be. It looked like a lion's mane and her curiosity was getting the best of her.

Lord Tywin wasn't expecting it. As soon as her fingers got remotely close, he recoiled from them; his eyes livid and dangerous.

"What are you _doing_?" His tone was equal parts surprise and anger.

"I- I- Touching. My lord." At that moment she was too scared to even look away, "Your face- I am sorry," she was trembling again, "I- I wanted to touch your face."

She curled her fingers into fists and pulled them tight to her middle; she didn't want to lose her hands on account of a misunderstanding.

This girl, sitting shaky on his lap, she didn't know. She _couldn't_ know that no one touched his face. Not even the servants that attended him. They knew never to make motion toward him there; it was too close to his neck, too vulnerable. He _alone _had ever shaved his face, and eventually his head, not trusting anyone to get that close with a blade.

So very few people had ever attempted such an intimate gesture as Lady Sansa just did. And while he didn't give her leave to do so, he couldn't find the logic that demanded she refrain. She _was_ his wife.

Alternately, he could handle her strictly, he could break her, force her to submit. But if he was to influence the north at all, his wife would be treated as the valuable commodity she was; and this meant concessions, compromises - within reason.

Setting his pride firmly away, Lord Tywin willed his voice to be gentle again, and his look to be softer.

"You caught me off guard my lady," his hands slowly sought hers, gently pulling them away from her body, working her fingers out of the fists she had made. "I am afraid it has been a lifetime since someone has been able to do that." It was the truth; if Lady Sansa had any ill-purpose he would've more than likely been dead.

He kept her eye as he leaned forward slightly, her hands still tucked into his own, and placed her palms on either side of his face; mildly pressing his fingers over hers. Showing her that was all right, that she was allowed to touch him in such a way.

It took several heartbeats, but Sansa eventually warmed to the exercise again.

Lord Tywin casually lowered his hands until they were resting on her hips; there was no urgency in his touch.

She watched his hands descend, then returned focus to her own.

He could feel her delicate fingertips work their way into the well groomed shagginess of his sideburns and it gave him an instant feeling of relief; like an itch that could only be scratched by someone else.

Long ago feelings were floating to the surface and he couldn't help but close his eyes and lean into her touch. It was for mere moments, in his mind it felt like hours; when he opened his eyes again it seemed that Lady Sansa didn't notice him falter.

His thumbs started their lazy circles where they lay on her hips; intending the gesture to be felt with the association of comfort - at the very least, good feelings.

When her fingertips started exploring his jawline and neck, Lord Tywin ran his palms down her thighs to where her nightdress was bundled just past her knees.

He watched her intently as he started pushing the fabric upward.

She had leaned closer to him as she was tactilely mapping his face and neck and as his hands moved, she paused suddenly; he could hear her breathing quicken.

"Allow me?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes, instead she swayed back slightly and raised her arms. Leaving him to lift the garment and remove it; reversing the action he took to dress her in it.

Once done, he tossed it over the side of the bed to the floor.

Anticipating her next move, Lord Tywin held her hands again.

As he suspected, Sansa was bringing them up to cover herself. Instead he set them at the top of his chest, where she had last touched him, and waited until she resumed her exploration before he started his.

He slowly moved his hands up her arms to her shoulders, over the goosebumps that grew under his touch, then gently dragged them down her sides. She flinched then, but he knew from the look on her face that it was from being ticklish and not from what she had suffered. Again he anticipated what she'd do and met her worried glance with one that was softer, even offering something twitched-out at the corner of his mouth that she could take as a smile.

Or not, it didn't much matter.

She started to guide her hands again, down and over his own scars. His chest and flanks were riddled with the puckered evidence of exactly what kind of man he was. She traced her fingers down a particularity long silvery line that rounded lower on his stomach to just above his waist.

"Jaime." His hands had come to rest on her hips once more, sitting idle, his voice was still light, but it also carried a bit of a faraway tone again.

She had a slight look of confusion on her face.

"My son, Ser Jaime," he let his mind take him for a moment, "He was young, seven perhaps, I had just given him a real sword." He scoffed lightly, but didn't smile, "The first thing he did was swing at me, unarmed and unarmoured, with live steel." He shook his head a little at the memory, "I was his first victory."

Sansa couldn't help but smile slightly to herself. Not that she found the story humorous, but that she could only conclude it was a rare thing to see Tywin Lannister in this way. It helped, however minutely, to ease her.

Her hands continued their journey.

So did his; this time lightly brushing his knuckles into the hair at her juncture before sweeping them softly up her torso to her breasts.

From the moment he removed her nightdress, Sansa could plainly see Lord Tywins' cock; at first laying soft in the light curls surrounding it, it was now larger and laying more onto his thigh. Her hands were stroking up and down his chest and stomach absently as she remained totally enthralled with his manhood.

When he thumbed over her nipples it broke her trance, and with a gasp she looked directly into his eyes. She could see a heat in them now; one that she _knew _she saw in the eyes of the Hound. His jaw was working as though he was displeased, but the rest of his face had an air of satisfaction.

Before she could consider any of this new information, Lord Tywin leaned forward and first licked, then placed his mouth over the tip of her breast. She could feel him sucking and sweeping his tongue over her nipple.

Feeling it tighten and gain in sensitivity, she made, without her minds permission, a low growling noise in the back of her throat - one that, surprisingly, Lord Tywin gave right back.

His hand was gently kneading her other breast; caressing it to the tip where he brought his thumb and forefinger together to tease her.

Sansa was starting to feel like she did during their first encounter; her breathing was deepening and there was that pool of heat building low inside her.

In the back of her mind, Sansa thought she should be feeling apprehensive, or shy, or frightened, or anything other than intriguingly heated and calm. But in light of_ everything_, Sansa knew that Lord Tywin was not going to inflict malicious hurt on her; not now, not tonight.

So, instead of having him guide her, she started rocking her hips of her own volition, helping to satisfy her need.

In doing so, she felt her most sensitive area rub up against his manhood. And when she peered between their bodies, she could see that it was even bigger and harder than before, jutting upward. There was a fluid gathering into drips along the slit at the top of it and she had to restrain herself from putting her hands on that part of him too; that was surely something he'd frown on.

At the moment their bodies touched like that, Lord Tywin reached around and pushed her backside in such a way that it made her womans place stroke him harder.

They were, again, making low humming noises together.

He had put his mouth on her other breast and moved the hand that was there to her lower back, holding her, supporting her.

She could feel the warmth spreading inside her, the pool getting larger, and set to grinding herself on him harder just to get some relief.

She felt the hand that was on her arse move slightly, then felt his fingers pressing into her in a way, and in a place, she'd never considered before. There was pressure at her entrance, but only as much as she pushed back on his fingers. Coupled with the rubbing on the nerve bundle in front, this new sensation brought torrents of pleasure crashing into her even faster than before.

She was almost delirious by the time she fell over the edge of her release, but Tywin was there to catch her. He held her head against his shoulder, letting her ride out the initial waves in his embrace; then, pivoting them both, he laid her back onto the bed.

She was still writhing, so he placed his palm over her mound; allowing her to find resistance as her hips churned.

He was rapt at her release; taken by the fact that it only compounded her beauty. Yet, at the same time, he was stung with a needle of guilt for thinking of her that way. If he let it, the current passion he felt for his new wife could easily twist to loss for his first, and he had to make a concerted effort to exist in the moment.

He watched her pant and moan and catch her breath before he removed his hand and positioned himself between her thighs; instinctively, she brought her knees up to cradle him there.

Sansa felt Lord Tywin push her thighs apart, then watched as he moved between them. She spread them wider and pulled her knees back slightly to help accommodate him.

She found she wasn't scared, she was nervous of the unknown - but when he put some of his weight on her, there was an unexpected sense of comfort.

There were so many new sensations; the course hair on his legs rubbing on the tender skin of her inner thighs, one of his hands pushed hard into the bed beside her while the fingertips of the other were tracing patterns on her belly and abdomen, _him_ resting hot and hard on her _there_.

When Lord Tywin spoke, his voice was sturdy and his face was serious; but his eyes held something Sansa couldn't discern, though it made him look sad. Her heart ached a little.

"There will be some pain."

It was all he could offer, all he could say before stroking the head of his cock up and down the slick heat of her then push inside in a slow, confident thrust.

It was his duty to his lady wife to look her in the eyes while he claimed her maidenhead. He wouldn't cower away or focus on his own pleasure. Sansa was high-born and there's an honour in having her; a right her birth affords. And Tywin would not only acknowledge this of her, but respect it as well.

However, the pain she tried to keep to herself as he pushed through her maidenhead was clear on her face; he was instantly catapulted back to another time his duties as a husband caused a girl pain and couldn't help but rest on his elbows to be closer. He remained motionless within her, leaning his weight on one arm and using the other hand to brush away the tears that had run down her cheeks.

Tywin tried to soften his tone for her; it came out husky and impatient anyway, "The worst is over my lady. If you wish, we can stop."

She regarded him then, all of him. The man who was pressing her into the soft mattress, who was gently wiping her tears away, who was holding static inside her to ease her pain; the same man who avenged her - avenged the violence that had been inflicted upon her for months and months - on her wedding night.

Her husband for true.

"N-No my lord... please..." Sansa didn't quite know what she was asking for, but the initial pain had given way to a new kind of pressure inside her. She felt filled, and his manhood was pulsing on its own; nudging her in a way that brought the same type of tingling his fingers did.

He considered her for a moment, then began carefully sucking on the pulse point of her neck and the soft skin under her chin. If it weren't for the quiet moans she was emitting, Tywin would curse himself a bloody fool for even_ thinking _to pass himself off as some sort of considerate lover; but his actions were solely in response to hers.

It was a handful of minutes before he felt her relax around him; limbs and inner walls alike. Only then did he start his slow, steady in-out motion.

He watched her for distress, tried to be gentle, but she was tight. Too tight. His hips bucked forward all on their own, looking to bury his cock further into her.

Her face didn't show a grimace, but her eyes squeezed shut.

Tywin gathered command of himself and concentrated on making his strokes even.

She could feel drops of Lord Tywins' sweat landing on her cheeks and neck, prompting her to open her eyes again.

She watched him move over her, watched him watching her in return. His eyes held the same look the from their first meeting - a hunger. And holding his gaze like that was a thrill, like when she'd climb to the tallest battlements in Winterfell, lean to the very edge, and peer over into the high open air.

Every stroke in and out was igniting a new pleasure and she had to raise her hips, trying to meet his thrusts in order to scratch that deep pitted itch. Sansa could see his restraint plainly; he was gritting his teeth, the corded muscles in his neck were pulled taut, controlling his every movement for her benefit.

She felt emboldened.

Tywin could see his wife shift under him, moving her hips in a clumsy rhythm, and raise her hands from where they were pressed against his chest to stroke her fingertips through the thick hair that partially framed his face. When her hands moved over his smooth scalp to the back of his neck, he groaned and allowed her pull him closer.

They were gasping each other's air when Sansa mustered her courage; softly, barely, pressing her lips to the very outer corner of Lord Tywins' mouth, then moving on she whispered "_More,_" beside his ear.

More _what_, she didn't know, but like her release from contact with his fingers, she could feel it building inside and needed more _something _to maintain it, or make it better, or...

The lions' body reacted before his mind could register the word; his pace and depth increased and it was a handful of thrusts later that he lost his rhythm.

Holding Sansa tightly he pressed his pelvis flush against hers, growled a curse into the skin of her neck, and shuddered hard as he spilled his seed as deep as he could be within her.

Sansa was catching her breath, listening as Lord Tywin was doing the same. They were still joined and she could feel how his cock was no longer so hard. Her center was sensitive, the feeling that had been intensifying in her was dissipating, and she couldn't help but moan when he moved off of her.

His manhood slipped from her folds followed by what felt like a great amount of wet pouring out.

He kept moving; rolled over to the edge of the bed, lifted himself off and, without a word, walked from the room altogether.

She watched him leave and instantly felt alone, more than that she felt ashamed. This is what it was like to be no more than a duty to a man. But what they just did felt like more to her - and that was worse, because she was stupid enough to allow herself to feel that way.

Her most private area now felt raw and hot and_ messy_. She didn't know if she should call for a bath, or stay put, or if Lord Tywin was expecting her to leave, or if he wanted to take his rights again.

Sansa was on the verge of panicking, tears just starting to pool, when she heard footsteps; and just like that, her lord husband walked through the door with a small basin and what looked like some linens in hand.

He was unashamed of his nakedness as he walked casually toward her; Sansa blushed and averted her eyes.

Lord Tywin didn't seem to notice, or care; taking a seat beside her on the edge of the bed.

He smelled of soap, freshly washed.

"Are you...," he was looking at anything except his wife, as though the words he was seeking were hanging in the air around him, "Is there... pain, my lady?" He flicked his gaze directly at her then, "I shall summon the maester if you require it."

"No... thank you my lord. I am... not in a great amount of pain." It wasn't a total lie.

As she spoke at just above a whisper, her hands subconsciously moved to cover her teats, modesty suddenly in the forefront.

He regarded her carefully, his eyes narrowed as though he was conducting an interrogation rather than making a simple inquiry, then nodded in acknowledgement; at the same time pulling one of the smaller linens from the bundle in his hand - setting the others beside him on the bed.

Holding the basin in one hand, he submerged the cloth in the water with the other and wrung it out in a tightened fist.

Sansa was almost of the impression he wanted her to get out of bed and wash, until he raised his hand and started to gently wipe her brow, then her cheeks and down her neck.

Stopping periodically, Lord Tywin would rinse the cloth and continue where he left off; cleaning her shoulders, her collar, moving her hands aside in order to softly wipe her breasts. Every expanse of skin where his lips touched, where his body had rested, where her sweat pooled, and where his sweat mingled, was left feeling cool and fresh.

His methodical bathing paused for a moment when he reached her abdomen, where he doubled back and went to her top of her right arm; he resumed at the same time he spoke, "Privately, or when decorum allows, you may call me Tywin."

She simply nodded at him, not yet so brave to try his name on her tongue without his honourific.

Sansa was watching as he carefully wiped down her arms, inside and outside, down to her hands, paying attention to each individual finger. There was a softness in his eyes she'd seen only a few times; once when Tommen forgot himself and hugged his grandfather at their betrothal dinner, it flashed so fast that certainly she had been the only one to observe it; she had also seen it, quite clearly, when he was pleasuring her.

There was a feeling of entitlement and strange power surging in her again; these were moments only she was privilege to.

"Sansa."

He flicked a look at her when she said her own name.

"You can call me Sansa."

Tywins' lips widened slightly to a not-quite shadow of a smile, "Sansa," he nodded back.

It felt both frightening and exciting to hear Tywin Lannister address her so intimately.

He was once again washing down her abdomen, over her the jut of her hips and down her thighs. He took his time cleaning away the smears of blood and seed from the inner part of her legs.

Sansa was only mildly concerned at seeing the cloth darken with her maiden blood, she knew it was to be expected. But when he rinsed the soft linen and gently washed her juncture she whimpered.

Her jaw was locked and her breath became shallow. Tywin tried to make quick work of his task, knowing that the soft cloth most likely felt like rusted mail in an area that was so sensitive for her.

"There will only be blood, and pain to this degree, once Sansa."

His words came across as agitated; and although she tried to mask her discomfort, she sucked a hiss through her teeth and slapped a hard grip on his wrist when he brushed against her entrance.

She slowly removed her hand from him, the look on her face read plainly that she was expecting him to strike her; all he could see in his minds eye were the weals laced across her back, then the same thought inexplicably replaced Sansa with Joanna.

"I'm sorry," his words came out sheepish, even in his own ears.

Tywin recovered quickly though, and finished what he was doing; promptly setting the basin and linens on a small table within the room.

She watched him round the end of the bed until he was sitting on the side he got out of. He just sat there for several moments looking at the fire in the hearth before swinging his legs up and bringing a covering with him, all in one motion.

He kept the cover up and away from the bed, silently inviting her to join him under it. She obliged her husband, scooted herself away from the blood and wet on the sheets and ended up as close to his side as she could manage, without touching or bothering him.

He didn't say a word, he simply placed the covers over her.

She eventually turned away from him and willed herself to sleep.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa woke suddenly to the darkness of an unfamiliar room and the unfamiliar warmth of a body next to her.

It took a moment for her to remember the events that drastically shaped her life in the past few days, settling on the vivid culmination only hours ago.

This was her new bedchamber, her new husband behind her, her new life ahead of her.

Lord Tywin was closer to her then when she had fallen asleep. She could feel her head was resting on his arm, his other arm was draped loosely around her middle, but what was most curious was that he had buried his face in her hair and was sleeping where it laid pressed to the back of her neck. She could feel her hair move and tickle with his every inhale and exhale.

Sansa had a moment of queer guilt, feeling as though she had forced her husband into this uncharacteristic embrace, but quickly took it back - she fell asleep well away from the man.

She felt safe though. Of that she would_ not _feel guilty. No one would dare harm her while Tywin Lannister had air in his lungs, not even a king.

This newly garnered power, regardless of whether it was only by association, was something she wanted to contemplate but was far too weary to even try.

At that, she closed her eyes again and, for the first time since the death of her father, slept soundly in Kings Landing.


End file.
